


let me tell you what i'm gonna be

by st_elsewhere



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Eventual Sex, M/M, emre is straight, emre is younger because canon, everyone assumes we're boyfriends kinda trope, look at the rating, more in a/n, phil might have a brother complex towards leandro, so scandalous lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7894525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_elsewhere/pseuds/st_elsewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>when you know you’re cute and you use the knowledge to get away with everything, featuring an older-looking younger guy who thinks he knows what he’s doing (he’s not).</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me tell you what i'm gonna be

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
>    
>  yooooo morning i promised a 10k standalone fic but when you're stuck you need to post it because you guys? you guys give me the best boost than booze #thuglife  
>  please comment.  
>  overanalyse the shit out of philippe.  
>  give me cute not-date ideas i mean adam isn't even mentioned yet help.  
>  i guarantee you pr0n on chapter 2 lmaooooo.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> here's ['started right' from hot chip, quite an inspiration. check out the lyric yo.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ywuu2pKraQ)
> 
> * * *
> 
> special shout out to [@mercuries](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuries) and [lesbleusthroughandthrough](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough) for being awesome together~~~
> 
>   
>    
>    
> 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

philippe doesn’t own a car.

leandro has one; a very cool, black ford fiesta, but he rarely uses it and he’s been nagging philippe to finally get his license. yes, philippe can’t drive. the only problem is, philippe works in shift, his schedule is mostly messed up. he never remembers to check the driving academy’s website or just visiting it to find out if he can have a personalized class every twice a week.

that, and philippe is lazy. he prefers public transportations where he can just sit back and relax, listening to his ancient ipod touch or reading a graphic novel, relying on the drivers to take him wherever he wants. driving means he needs to be careful with his speed, a careless cat, the faux lulling from the radio, and he’s seen leandro driving in the middle of a heavy downpour.

he knows that leandro knows why he’s slacking off to get his own license, but at least he _knows_ how to warm up leandro’s car everyday. he’s a good brother, really.

who’s in a great need of help. leandro is a policeman, he’s on evening duty every thursdays, but philippe’s hands are shaking so badly he can’t reach for his phone. it’s also a possibility that the man who’s been following him ever since he got off of the tube is after his phone. _god_ , philippe _likes_ his phone. it’s great, he bought it last year on a great christmas sale. he uses it for taking photos (not of himself, but maybe sometimes) and to skype ma and pa and to play games.

his heartbeats are loud on his ears.

his legs are failing him.

he’s cold all over and he’s starting to have a hard time breathing.

the five minutes walk from the station to his apartment seems to stretch for hours because what the hell?? why is he not in the safety of the apartment’s lobby where john and lee are watching the newest episode of ‘keeping up with the kardashians’?

the man is still walking behind philippe. menacing. towering over him, clad in all black with the hood of his jumper covering his face from what philippe can see on a closed costa’s glass window.

philippe’s casio beeps, signaling that it’s eleven _post meridiem_ o’clock.

robbery happens all the time. philippe refuses to blame him taking the tube for his impending unfortunate fate, and now that he thinks about it, he’s so not telling leandro. if leandro found out that philippe got robbed because a crook followed him on his way home from the tube, he would call their parents and they would wail at him to get his own car!

a car is too expensive to maintain! look at leandro worrying about monthly check-ups and gas money and that one time his left mirror was struck by a speeding motorcycle!

philippe whines low in his throat when he reaches his empty apartment’s lobby. the flat screen is on, the younger kardashian is taking a selfie. john and lee tend to make snacks together, philippe knows, and they make the best peanut butter and jelly, somehow. philippe finds his strength to save himself after the girl finishes puckering her big lips.

philippe yelps when he trips over the starting step of the stairs, successfully landing on his hands and knees. his rock-filled backpack is an unwelcome weight to his fall and philippe screeches when the man hurries to take his elbows.

“don’t touch me!” philippe flails his arms. he scrambles to stand up, face to face with the suspicious man.

“ _what?_ ” the man frowns not only his thick eyebrows but also his thick lips. “it’s phil from 4B, right? i live in 4C, we were in the tube from liverpool central.” his super deep voice sounds confused.

philippe hates it when he’s called ‘phil’.

“are you alright?” 4C asks again, his big hands are hovering in the air. “you’re sweating.”

“i swear i heard a banshee just now, john! swear this fancy building is fucking haunt—oh, hiya, philippe, emre! didn’t even see you guys there.” it’s lee, his uniform is opened at the throat, emerging from the back kitchen with a plate in one hand and two cans of beer in the other. john is rolling his eyes at his partner, but he’s quick to sense philippe’s distress and emre’s confusion.

“everything alright, lads?” john addresses 4C, who must be at least a decade older than philippe. things like these happen way too often that philippe doesn’t even get mad anymore, unlike years ago when he had desperately wanted to be taken seriously by everyone. he can’t blame his parents for his small stature and baby face or leandro for monopolizing all the tall and macho genes.

“yeah,” 4C says, taking the hood of his jumper off and philippe envies his super immaculate, surprise surprise, _black_ hair. “sorry. i didn’t mean to scare phil.”

“it’s _philippe_ ,” philippe deserves to sulk. he’s tired. his backpack is _so_ heavy but he hopes his laptop is okay. “don’t look at me like _that_. i thought you wanted to rob me.” he juts out his bottom lip because he knows john and lee are not immune to his dirty trick to get anything he wants, including putting all the blame to 4C, who is still looking at him in disbelief and confusion but not in anger. never in anger. everybody loves philippe.

“okay philippe,” 4C snorts but without a bite. he’s just shaking his head. “i’m so sorry you don’t know your neighbor.”

“um.” philippe scrunches his nose, genuinely embarrassed. they live next to each other? “sorry.”

“all good, then?” john claps 4C’s super wide shoulders and 4C shakes his head again, raising an eyebrow at philippe. “this is _emre can_ , he’s been with us for _three months_.”

lee chooses that timing to coo at philippe’s lack of hospitality like he’s the cutest twenty four year old ever. john tuts at him and leaves him with emre alone, shouting at the flat screen for an abrupt commercial.

philippe rocks on his heels. even as he stands on the starting step where he oh so gracefully fell, emre is still annoyingly taller than him.

his knees are throbbing.

“hi, uh... philippe coutinho,” philippe offers emre his clammy hand, “please don’t ever call me phil again?”

emre’s grip is casual but firm. his hand is warm and super huge, like the rest of him.

“emre can.” he smiles, and the corners of his dark eyes are crinkling. “but phil is easier.”

“no.” philippe is only huffing out of habit. older people never stand a chance against it. “ _philippe_. i’m so sorry for overreacting. i’m tired and i have a morning shift tomorrow.”

emre hums to agree. “well, the sooner we start moving, the sooner you’ll meet your bed.” he nods towards the stairs. philippe is just about to smile at him for the sympathy when emre continues, “ _phil_.”

“aw!” philippe, again, slaps emre’s thick bicep only because out of habit. people in general never complains if philippe is being way a little too touchy. he notices emre’s laugh is also in deep baritone and its echo is still ringing even after emre apologizes half-heartedly.

“how early is your morning shift?” emre asks as they reach the second floor.

“six thirty. the store’s open at seven. i need to take the six am tube.” philippe uses both hands to cover his yawn. “oh god, so tired.”

philippe can feel the smile without actually seeing it as emre asks, softer this time, “what do you do?”

“junior supervisor at sainsbury’s.” philippe sighs on the third floor, exaggeratedly so. he wants a glass of milk. “what about you?”

“a full-time senior.” emre catches philippe before he trips over his feet _again_ , no thanks to his lie?!

“ha ha _no_.” philippe squeezes emre’s super huge hand before letting go.

“why not?” emre is _chuckling_.

“no offense, but you look like you’re in your early thirties.” philippe says to the fourth floor sign, not wanting to know emre’s reaction.

“can’t accept the fact that you’re older than me?” emre tugs at the left strap of philippe’s backpack, making him stumble backward right onto emre’s chest. “aw, look at you, so portable!”

“port—! i’m not a phone charger!” philippe hisses, minding the wilsheres who live in 4A with their two little kids. he pouts/glares at emre because the _younger man_ is still chuckling.

“i’m sorry.” emre whispers too, his super dark eyes are twinkling.

“it’s okay,” philippe mumbles, fishing out his keys from the backpack’s front pocket. “see you soon?”

“see you soon. good night, phil.”

 

✖

 

“what’s kicking?”

philippe makes a face at roberto for asking the obvious. today the new stationery stocks are shipped to their store; they’re going to put up an interactive display product from faber-castell featuring disney princesses, and philippe knows he’ll be home late, missing the pilot episode of great british bake off season six.

but he likes free stuffs. he won’t say no to anything mulan, anyway. a new pocket note, maybe? hmm...

“you’re lucky you’re cute, if it’s alberto making faces at me i’m sure my fist will talk.” roberto’s fist is talking _anyway_ , it’s bonking philippe on the ass. they’re on the frozen foods aisle, oh my god, there are families around!

“what’s eating you? it’s friday.”

“that’s why.” naturally, philippe has to slap roberto’s left bicep to make a point.

and of course roberto, who’s been friends with philippe for the past year, naturally dismisses it with an easy laugh. “that’s why? you never hang out with us on fridays.” he snorts, not unkindly. “you just go straight home after your shift and wait for your older brother to sing you to sleep.”

“shut it.” philippe doesn’t have a brother complex. “leandro is not home, he drives to london for the weekend.”

“awwh don’t be sad! we could move the party to your home, then!” roberto is speaking in a hushed tone; a mother and her two children just appear from the corner, looking at the selection of chicken nuggets. “alberto and i were thinking of going to the newly opened club just seven blocks from here. if we’re lucky we’ll snatch hendo, too. come on, we get our paychecks on monday!”

“jordan is coming?” philippe has to give the credit to roberto and alberto _if_ they really manage to drag their boring junior manager to hang out with them. sure jordan laughs and makes jokes with them, but he’s too straightedge even for philippe’s standard.

(and you already know from roberto that philippe loves to stay home on weekends.)

speaking of paycheck, philippe is so treating himself tonight. “no, sorry,” he smiles and scrunches his nose, already daydreaming about triple chocolate cake he’s going to buy from the cake section. knowing his shift, he won’t be able to stop by a bakery later tonight. also, sainsbury’s triple chocolate cake is _good,_ seriously. “i want to eat cake then sleep until noon.”

“you’ll get faaaaat~” roberto’s predatory leer for philippe is legendary. it doesn’t belong in the sexual spectrum but more in the platonic-but-still-somewhat-creepy way. “tho i’m sure you’ll be so cute if you’re fat.”

“i know you’ll love it.” philippe sticks his tongue out at his friend and bids goodbye. he has to report back to jordan about the frozen foods stock he had checked before roberto picked a small chat with him.

 

 

 

it’s august. the rain stops as soon as philippe gets into the tube station. but philippe didn’t bring his umbrella, so he’s spectacularly drenched at eleven on a friday night. great.

the tube is cold. philippe sits next to the armrest and curls up on himself. when the sliding doors open, warm air swooshes in. too bad he’s in only for two stops.

no no, it’s fortunate that he’s already out in the open where the rain has ceased! he can’t wait to get rid of his wet clothes, have a quick hot shower, and treat himself with the two slices triple chocolate cake plus netflix.

only to find everyone, _literally_ _everyone_ , who lives in his apartment building are scattered in the street, bundled up in... pajamas and hair-rollers and the wilsheres’ kids are crying. nooooooooooo archie and delilah should never ever cry!

philippe forgets all about his faber-castell hardship and his plan to relax. delilah is on her mother’s arms, and lauren is back-facing him. philippe approaches them, using his two knuckles to wipe delilah’s wet chin.

“hullo sweet cheek~” he greets the three year old. delilah turns her head away from him and lauren gasps.

“philippe! thank god!” she draws the attention of her boyfriend, jack, and their son archie, who’s hiccuping.

“hey, what happened?” philippe nods to jack. now that he can focus on his surrounding, he notices the red and blue lights from an ambulance and two firetrucks. a couple of police officers are seen taking notes on their little black books. john and lee are shaking their heads, looking tired and tense.

“the fire alarm went off. the firemen are still checking thoroughly,” jack explains, stroking archie’s hair. “we tried to call you.”

“oh.” philippe clears his throat. he searches his backpack for his phone and finds it on ‘airplane mode’. right. he tends to activate it when he’s working, or else he’ll get distracted to catch up the next level on candy crush. having a jordan henderson as your junior manager sure has its positive perks, huh?

“we’re glad you’re okay,” lauren adds, “one of the first responding officers is leandro’s friend, i’m pretty sure he told your brother we couldn’t get in contact with you.” her small smile is sympathetic, because it’s nobody’s secret that the coutinho brothers are close. “maybe it’s best to call him now.”

philippe scrunches his nose and grimaces. he thanks his neighbor and makes a kissy face at delilah before taking his leave; walking backwards a couple of steps only to bump against a solid someone.

“sorry—emre! hi!” philippe gapes because emre has nothing but a goofy and pluto printed, yellow towel slung over his neck and a pair of worn out black satin boxer on. “oh my god, you look terrible!” philippe is well-known to be the cutest adult wherever he goes, that’s a given fact, and people mention a lot about his filter-free ( _very_ kissable, for the record) mouth.

emre snorts, still without a bite like last time. he does look terrible! his black hair is damp and limp, creating a somewhat intimate look about his whole being; what with his broad, broad, _broad_ shoulders on full display and his shivering, long torso expanding whenever he takes a breath. don’t forget the unlikely background lights from the ambulance and the firetrucks hitting his tanned skin under the cloudy night.

philippe puffs out his chest, straightens his spine. in his defense, he doesn’t want to appear as terrible as the man ( _younger!_ ) he’s just... gracelessly commented.

“were you taking a shower when it happened?” philippe tones down his voice a little because he doesn’t want emre to be cross with him.

“yeah,” emre has vapors coming out from his mouth, “thank god i’ve washed off the shampoo.”

philippe wants to coo. the only problem is, he only coos to little kids like archie and delilah.

“aren’t you cold? want me to ask for a blanket from the ambulance?” he takes emre’s super huge hands, flinching because of how cold they are. he opens his mouth to scold the younger man, but emre is staring at him like he’s got planet jupiter personally picked and packaged for him.

at philippe’s utterly comical disbelief that must have been written all over his place, emre mumbles, “um. please?”

“oh my god.” philippe pulls emre—menacingly taller and bigger—behind him, guiding them to greet a paramedic who blushes at emre’s adonis display. she bats her eyelashes at emre as she hands over two blankets, and philippe watches as emre smiles back. wholeheartedly. huh.

_huh._

not that philippe notices or anything, but some of his friends’ flirting games are so painfully obvious philippe often gets secondhand embarrassment from them. he can’t help but to compare, okay? besides, emre is, hands down, decidedly better looking than his usual group of friends (philippe is not pointing finger at anyone, by the way.)

philippe has to tiptoe to help emre with the blankets. he wraps the blankets around emre’s wide shoulders and when he’s done, emre is smiling down at him, also wholeheartedly.

“better?” philippe fights the urge to roll his eyes. how old is emre again? did he ask? he didn’t, did he? does he want to know? yes, he does. it’s important.

“much.” emre crosses his covered arms.

“good, now stay here. i have to call my brother.”

“aren’t you cold too?”

philippe really, _really_ _wants_ to coo. “i’m fine.”

leandro picks up on the second ring, yelling at the earpiece. philippe listens to everything his older brother has to say, and whines back to emphasize his wellbeing. he probably stomps a little just for a show because someone (emre) is bad at concealing his curiosity.

“alright. yes, fiiiiineee i won’t sleep with earphones on. i promise! i promise, okay? i should go, i’m so tired. what? yes, i had dinner with roberto and alberto. what? anything, i dunno, get me anything. thank you! see you! have fun!” philippe isn’t shy to tell leandro he loves him, but john and lee are making everyone gather for a briefing together with the police and the firemen. emre stays close to him, even gesturing for philippe to snuggle with him under the blankets. philippe makes a face, refuses to be coddled by a younger man, but settles to cling to emre’s blanketed arm instead; apparently, emre’s left bicep is comfy.

long story short, there is no fire. there was a smoke from second floor, but that was it.

he trusts emre to be able to return the blankets back to the poor paramedic alone while he talks to the wilsheres again. he asks, whispers, really, whether the kids can have chocolate cake because he happens to have two—and lauren has to cut him off there with a pretty smile that _no, thank you, philippe, that’s so kind of you but they can’t._ they’re going to the london zoo very early tomorrow, the kids need their sleep. philippe bops delilah’s cute button nose and pinches archie’s left earlobe before they part ways, and yelps when emre is back on his side.

“i want the chocolate cake.” emre declares like they’re not talking ever since the misunderstanding/their first meeting a couple of weeks ago. heck, philippe didn’t even catch a glimpse of his neighbor at all!

“you don’t have work tomorrow, right?”

“no,” philippe says, glancing at the paramedic who’s staring at emre, and snakes his arm around the oblivious man’s, steering him away to get inside their apartment’s lobby.

“your hoodie is wet.” emre smells fresh but also soft like johnson’s milky body wash.

“i _knooooowww_ , here’s the deal,” philippe squeezes emre’s heavy, huge, muscly arm against his chest. “i will wait for you to get dressed, we go to my place, you will wait for me while i take hot shower, then finally we can have wine or whatever to go with the chocolate cake. sounds good?”

emre nods like a puppy. “i don’t drink, but i’ll have tea.”

“say what?” philippe presses his right cheek to emre’s comfortable left bicep, frowning.

“i don’t drink.” emre repeats, always catching philippe by surprise but never fails to save him from tripping over his feet. “watch your step.” he grasps philippe’s hand in his, and philippe thinks he won’t say no if emre tells him to hop on his back right this second.

“thank you,” philippe tilts his head, moving his hand to cling to emre’s arm again. he likes the feeling. emre is very solid, like a tank. “you don’t drink? you look like you can chug a jug!”

“i just don’t.” emre shrugs, leaving it at that. he doesn’t look upset but he doesn’t want to elaborate? weird. “doesn’t matter, right?”

philippe perks up. he doesn’t want emre to be cross with him, remember? “totes!” he frowns when he reads 4C right in front of him. “oh. did we climb the stairs? ha ha, well! is our deal still on?”

“of course, want to have a quick tour of my crib?” the door isn’t locked, and philippe slaps emre’s shoulder.

“i had hoped you wouldn’t go that way. welcome to my crib thingy. wow, look at the size of your flat screen!” he very politely hovers next to the gigantic samsung.  emre’s living room is cramped, the furnitures are clearly new and stiff; the kitchen is way too clean if emre is using in regular basis. there’s a closed door with no decoration which philippe assumes is emre’s bedroom. is 4C smaller than 4B? seems like it. “is this a one bedroom apartment?” philippe asks as emre opens his sleek refrigerator.

“i won the flat screen. and yes, C’s are smaller than the rest.” emre sneezes when he squats down to pick something. “sorry. i stock snickers and reese’s buttercups. which one do you want?”

“you won the flat screen? _how?_ ” philippe hums, wondering if the expensive looking dvd player is part of the winning prize. “snickers are good.”

emre is all smile when he dumps a pack of mini snickers to philippe’s arms. “something from my department’s anniversary. my parents said i have the best luck.” then he goes to his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“amazing. what else have you won?” philippe wants to sit down but his black jeans are damp.

“not just things.” emre comes back dressed in frayed, black sweater and grey sweatpants, with his hair still floppy and overall giving off the vibe of a reluctant heartbreaker. he’s really, _really_ good looking that philippe envies how effortless he is.

“scholarship, free almond milk for a year from starbucks, concert tickets.”

“oh, i love almond milk!” philippe is impressed. and emre is so young too! “are you ready? what scholarship? to your university?”

“let’s go,” emre puts his huge hand on philippe’s lower back, “yeah, full scholarship. you should tell me whenever you’re craving for almond milk. i’m not really into it.”

whoa!

“your loss,” philippe sticks his tongue out and emre laughs. suddenly, philippe is not tired anymore. he’s not in a hurry to sleep. emre (not only his bicep) makes him comfortable. “while we’re at it, welcome to my crib! i share it with my older brother. we’re quite neat, but not as neat as you.” philippe unlocks the door and locks it again as emre takes in the spacious living room. philippe shrugs off his wet hoodie and hangs in on the coat hanger just next to the built in shoes cabinet. “please, sit down. help yourself with anything in the fridge. but wait, let me just prepare the tea for you.”

“it’s okay, the tea can wait,” emre nods towards leandro’s flat screen. “can i watch something while you shower?”

“nonsense, you’re my guest! my tea is delicious!” philippe clicks his tongue in mock disapproval, exactly what leandro would do whenever he’s being a cute brat. emre _is not_ cute, but heh, same difference.

he pushes emre’s solid chest so he can sit down. emre humors him by falling with a quiet _oof_ onto the nude colored sofa-bed. “i have cable. just don’t watch porn.”

“ _right_. please add cream but no sugar for my delicious tea.”

“of course, _bebê_.”

philippe busies himself with the cups and everything, and emre is busy zapping through the channels only to settle on the shawshank redemption.

“i didn’t ask you this, but how did you know my name?” philippe goes back to the living room, resting his elbows on the sofa-bed’s headrest. from this angle he can determine that whoever cuts emre’s hair is a renewed artist. “my god, this movie is depressing.”

emre shrugs for both of philippe’s questions. “sometimes your friends are loud. i think your brother’s name is leo something?”

“sorry, he he. it’s leandro. um, what does ‘emre’ mean?”

“it’s turkish for ‘friend’. or ‘older brother’. ish.”

“ _ish?_ ”

“your pick.”

“definitely friend.” philippe moves closer to sniff emre’s hair and stays right there. his breath is warm when it bounces against emre’s skin back to his. “hmmm, what’s your shampoo? smells so good. naw, _you_ smell great!”

emre grins. “don’t tell my secret, yeah? i use johnson’s baby products.”

“i knew it!” philippe gets tired easily. he’s grumpy when he’s tired. he _was_ tired, remember? yet he’s going to share his triple chocolate cakes with emre; this is his first time to feel oh so perky at near midnight like this. “older brother. _ish._ where is the lie?” he ruffles emre’s soft, soft hair and emre’s grin turns dirty.

“not exactly daddy material, hm?”

philippe pouts, frowns, in a total disbelief. “what? you’re so not a ‘daddy’.” he rolls his eyes. “pfft.”

“then you can’t be my sugar baby.”

“heyyy! how dare you!”

“what? you totally look like one.”

“no, i don’t.”

“i beg to pardon.”

“ugh, you’re not cute.” philippe pinches emre’s left ear and he’s saved from emre’s probably very gentle revenge by the kettle’s whistle. “two spoonful of cream okay with you?”

“okay.” emre turns up the flat screen’s volume. “what did you call me earlier? _bebê?_ baby? spanish?”

“yes, baby, because you _are_.” philippe sets the plain pastel blue mug on the coffee table, feeling smug when emre scoffs at him thanks to the nickname. “but no. brazilian portuguese.”

“nice.” emre salutes philippe with the mug. the tea is lukewarm so he should be fine. he takes a sip, and his dark eyes are twinkling. “your tea is delicious, thanks.”

philippe clasps his hands like a very fond mama bear. he can’t help but to feel like it. “you’re welcome! i’ll be quick, so don’t worry too much.” he practically leaps to his bedroom to grab his change of clothes, leaps again to the bathroom, washes his hair and body in a record-breaking speed (thank god for the apartment’s excellent hot water), and finds emre sleeping soundly on his sofa-bed; the hand on his lap is still holding the remote with his hair falling to his forehead.

philippe denies he’s whining at the unadulterated display of vulnerability. he has to mentally tells himself off that _no, no i should. not. run to my room to get my charged phone to snap a picture for future blackmail._ no _, philippe!_ —while giggling, covering his mouth with both hands.

in the end he does go to his room to get a blanket for his younger friend.

 

✖

 

emre is gullible.

philippe believes he’s easy like that by nature, therefore he _believes_ his very own cruel exercise of guilt-tripping doesn’t contribute even half to the... excessive apology texts (they exchanged numbers the morning after emre fell asleep on philippe’s sofa-bed)—and a surprise visit to sainsbury’s.

with a grande cup of steaming almond milk from starbucks.

philippe is squealing, not giving the slightest damn that no customer is supposed to bring a drink in cups into the store; not even caring about his image in front of jordan with whom he was discussing about the progress of the faber-castell’s interactive display product.

(that white-haired princess from ‘frosted’ or something monopolizes everything. philippe only has his eyes for mulan, thank you very much.)

“ _bebê_! tell me that’s not coffee!” of course it’s not coffee, philippe can smell the signature nutty smell from afar! “aw! it’s not even my birthday!”

“when’s your birthday?” emre’s hand is cold and philippe shakes his head, wondering why emre gets cold easily. “it’s not coffee.”

“my birthday is on june.” philippe reaches for emre’s free hand and maneuvers it to hold onto the warm cup. then he covers them with his, blowing air for extra warmth. “i know it’s not coffee, he he he.”

emre smiles. the corners of his dark eyes are crinkling. philippe thinks he can hear emre telling himself _june? got it_ —but maybe that’s just the bright neon lights tricking him. he’s never seen emre in such setting before; and emre’s tan skin looks amazing for someone who lives in liverpool featuring its glorious weather.

_leandro would be jealous of this kid..._

“listen, i still feel stupid for last time,” emre starts, furrowing one eyebrow. his hair is gelled up today, and instead of smelling like milky body wash, he smells like the ocean. philippe is listening. “how about front seats for next liverpool match against manc this saturday?”

“ _what?!_ ” philippe squeals, again. still with jordan just a couple of yards standing next to white-haired princess life-sized cutout and a representative from faber-castell. like, _who the heck cares??_

“is it in anfield?” he wants to hug emre but he can’t risk toppling over his well-deserved almond milk.

“yes.”

“oh my goooooddd!”

jordan clears his throat. “philippe, if you’re done with your boyfriend over there?”

“yes, i’m sorry, sir!” philippe turns to scrunch his nose at the junior manager. jordan is just like everyone else, he’s weak to philippe’s cuteness. “be right there.” ah, don’t forget the faber-castell representative who looks like he will always forgive philippe even though he’s wasting his time.

meanwhile, emre is gullible, remember? he continues in a whisper, making an apologetic/embarrassed face, “scary.”

(he’s not commenting about _the boyfriend_ remark from jordan though?)

“no, he just doesn’t have a _bebê_ to bring him almond milk!” philippe whispers back, patting emre’s left shoulder and taking the grande cup from emre’s hands.

emre fakes a protest. “what, i’m your baby slave now?”

“no! geez, i’m not that cruel.”

emre snorts, shaking his head, clearly amused. he does that a lot.

“do you want to have dinner at nando’s later?”

“sure, my treat! just the one before the bus stop? i’ll meet you there at, um, seven?”

“see you later,” emre puts his cold hands on the pockets of his washed denim and to jordan he gives a professional, adult nod. “i’m sorry, sir.”

philippe couldn’t be more proud!

 

✖

 

on saturday, the wind blows.

like, in full force. trees are swinging, eyes are shielded, and people wear thick coats and scarves.

emre, smartly, doesn’t dress for the weather.

“it was sunny when i went to the library!” that frustrated tone is probably the closest to him _whining_. it’s not cute, but philippe is half done half wanting to smother him in a hug anyway.

“you could’ve called! i can bring you a coat!” philippe, as per usual, is holding emre’s huge hands to warm him up. they’re right in front of the shankly gates entrance, and the match is in half an hour. despite the gloomy weather, the atmosphere is really majestic this evening. it’s indescribable.

philippe plays football when he feels like it on weekends with his co-workers, and leandro ‘the traitor’ is a fan of everton. he’s been to anfield before, he’s got ridiculous crush on steven gerrard for _years_ before, and he isn’t ashamed to admit that he cried on captain fantastic’s last game.

at least that day, lots of men cried together with him right there in anfield.

that was the last time because his ex was there with him, and philippe didn’t feel like getting another heartbreak for a while.

anyway.

emre snorts, now with a healthy dose of mockery. “whose coat? yours?”

“hey!” how dare he while freezing to coma like this! “shut it. let’s buy lots of scarves.”

they only get to take one step further to the merchandise stalls when someone with a red mic and another with a camera are stopping them. “excuse me? hi, we’re from liverpool tv. are you smiley lads on a date? tell us a bit.” the man holding the red mic wears liverpool’s official polo shirt, and he has an ID card that yells STAFF at philippe and emre.

but what was his question again?

“what?” philippe has emre’s arm tucked in his, solely for warming his hands only, and he blinks to the intimidating camera.

the mic guy repeats the question, “is this your first date?”

“pfft, _what?_ ” philippe knows he’s making ugly face right now, but when he’s about to correct the liverpool tv STAFFS, emre interrupts, easily enough just like how he gets cold,

“you could tell? is it the quarreling? phil is going to buy me scarves because as you can see,” he even has the nerve to _pause_ for suspense, then to _smile_ like he’s in a commercial audition. “wardrobe malfunction.”

 _who are you and what have you done to my_ bebê!?

the mic guy grins along with emre and philippe wishes the man won’t indulge his neighbor too much. “sweet. so, first date on a very important match. what’s your prediction?”

emre sure can act! he turns to philippe and wraps his arm around philippe’s shoulders, squeezing, acting like he’s thinking.

“i’m rooting for our newest sign wijnaldum, hope he’s found the rhythm today. we’re talking about manc here,” his answer is diplomatic. “so... 2-1 for liverpool. how about you, phil?”

_ph—!_

“all i can think about is how to keep you warm during the match, _baby_ ,” philippe is so playing this game. he pinches emre’s chin, _hard_. “on the serious note, we should show them devils that no red is truer than liverpool! two nil!”

“great interview, lads, thank you,” the mic guy gives the universal ‘cut’ signal to the cameraman. for a STAFF, he still looks on the younger side, probably on his late twenties. “the interview was livestreamed on our website. but! you can check it out on liverpool tv’s youtube in six hours.” he sighs, like he can’t have enough, and then he—philippe swears— _gushes_ , “have a good day you two. such a cute couple. god bless.” he’s already gone before philippe can correct his assumption.

dumbfounded, because it’s either the mic guy is also gay or his gaydar is rusty, philippe elbows emre’s side; dislodging him. he stomps to go to the merchandise stalls.

“what? it wasn’t my fault!” emre puts his cold fingertips on philippe’s nape, and philippe hisses, pinching what he can pinch from emre’s way too solid stomach. ugh!

emre laughs, his nose and cheeks are red.

“right, but really? _phil?_ ” philippe sends a smile to the cigarette smoking salesman. he wasn’t raised as a barbar. “convince me why i have to buy you lots of scarves!” he picks at the selection of today’s match red scarves. emre doesn’t really have many options to begin with, but thankfully philippe is a keen shopper.

“because i’m your _bebê_?” emre makes one hell of a cheeky smile, and philippe scoffs; a denial is ready on the tip of his tongue, but the cigarette smoking salesman beats him by asking in his friendly tone because customer is king,

“are you lads a may-december couple? who’s the _bebê_? what is it? spanish for baby?”

“it’s brazilian portug—” philippe takes a deep breath. _bebé_ is spanish for baby, although it’s pronounced the same as _bebê_. philippe wonders why he bothers anymore. first jordan, then the liverpool tv STAFFS, and now the merchandise salesman? who’s next? leandro? archie and delilah?

“what’s with your smug smile? gross.” philippe knows it’s useless for him to glare, because his pout will always overshadow it. he slaps emre’s annoyingly, equally solid chest to avenge his irritation. “how much is this one?” he picks the less tacky design of liverpool v manutd red scarf.

the merchandise salesman nods. “good lad. for your boyfriend? five pounds.”

 _ugh_.

“i’ll take two, but give me a discount.”

“three for twelve. you need a matching pair, and you can give the rest to your pets back home.”

see? philippe is. not. going. to. bother.

“fine,” he swallows down his irrational anger, taking out a twenty. “he’s not my boyfriend.”

“okay, at least you’re not going to walk alone, baby!”

emre’s laugh is really, _really_ unnecessary. “nice one,” he quips, either oblivious or indifferent. philippe takes his change and leaves with a grumbled thanks, putting all three scarves under emre’s care who, carelessly, drapes all of them around his wide, wide shoulders. _hmph_. show-off!

(but at least he’s warm now.)

upon the ticket inspection’s queue, emre leans down so he can tilt his head cutely for philippe to see, “why are you mad?”

excellent question. philippe is going to run a little test.

“why aren’t you?” he bites back, crossing his arms.

emre’s frown screams genuine confusion. “so? let them assume. i have no problem with that.” he stands up straighter, taller, his confusion is making him defensive. he’s mimicking philippe’s posture; his crossed arms are huge on his chest.

“ha, okay then.” philippe uncrosses his arms because au contraire, _he_ doesn’t want to _assume_. he takes two scarves from emre’s shoulders, wrapping the leftover nicely around emre’s tense neck.

um. not good.

“i’m sorry.” he steps closer, holding onto the lapels of emre’s unzipped, black hoodie.

“for what?” emre lets his arms dangle on his sides, letting philippe into his space.

“nothing.” philippe fumbles with the zipper, intending to zip it up. “ng, do you want hot dogs?”

“i’ll get it during half-time.” emre stays still as philippe manages to zip up until it reaches the scarf’s bundle.

“no, i mean, if you want, i can get one—” philippe looks up to find emre is still frowning.

“no, philippe. thank you.”

“tickets, please.”

they’re falling in this awkward silence that philippe regrets because now he’s back to assuming things! it’s either emre is also gay—which is unlikely, knowing how many girls are checking him out everytime they’re in the tube or nando’s or anywhere in public, or the fact that emre’s eyes can’t help but to follow some of their slim or thick thighs—or maybe emre is the totally cool type having a friend who’s gay, though philippe is sure he hasn’t said a word about which team he’s playing for, _ever._

philippe is so busy assuming things he doesn’t look where he’s going. he’s thisclose to somersault over the electronic advertising board if emre is not grabbing his waist right in time.

“whoa!” philippe’s reaction is a tad second too late, but the stadium is already packed and he knows he’s blushing thanks to his own little stunt.

(totally not because the arm on his waist.)

“thanks.” he turns, scrunching his nose at emre who rolls his eyes.

“see? you need a sugar daddy.” emre pushes philippe to get to his seat. far from his usual gentle handling and philippe lets it slide because he so doesn’t need a sugar daddy!

“i need a—” hell, he’s the one calling emre _bebê_! “shut it, will you?”

emre laughs. he stretches his legs once they’re seated. not missing a beat, he tries his best to sound neutral, “did it bother you that much?”

“what? no. you called me _phil_.” philippe fusses with his scarf, tightening it around his neck. “ _that_ bothers me.”

“alright, phil.”

“my god!” philippe puts extra, unnecessary power on his thumb as he pinches emre’s left, stubbled cheek. he jumps when emre’s hand touches his. “use this to warm yourself.” he flings the scarf that was meant for their fucking imaginary dog and emre does as he’s told like a good baby, raising his eyebrows cheekily as if to taunt _there, happy now xoxo?_

ha. wait.

why doesn’t emre have any nickname for philippe? not fair!

“you know,” he slips his arm around emre’s, shifting closer, resting his chin on emre’s left shoulder, accidentally getting a clear picture of... him and emre? he decides nickname can wait. “what’s that?”

“while you were attacking me like a pesky mosquito, i browsed through instagram tag for today’s match and look what i’ve found.” emre’s hand is the perfect size to hold an enormous iphone 6+.

philippe doesn’t have time to feel insulted because his extra, unnecessary power felt just like a mosquito bite to emre. the picture is more intriguing. “that’s... us?”

“yeah, a girl, well, i think ‘@kopgirl8’ is a girl? well, she screen capped our interview from the website.” emre scrolls down through the eleven comments and all of them are all agreeing to the ‘adorable kops sighted! wish i was there with them T_T’ caption. the picture itself has one hundred and two likes. oh. make it one hundred and three because emre just double tapped it.

“what’s your instagram? i’ll follow you.” he asks, letting philippe taking over his enormous phone with both hands.

“ _what?_ ” philippe frowns as he checks out @kopgirl8 instagram. it’s filled with a lot of steven gerrard and xabi alonso pictures instead of herself. “i don’t have one. i only have facebook.”

“hm. may i? let me check snapchat. do you have snapchat?” emre takes his phone back, writing something with his right thumb while he runs his left hand through his perfectly gelled hair.

“facebook.”

“twitter?”

“no, _bebê_.”

emre shrugs. “we’re also in liverpool’s snapchat. you look cute.” at philippe practically clawing his arms, emre shows him the short video. “here. cute.”

well. philippe _knows_ he’s cute. what he _doesn’t know_ is that he looks cute too in social media!

he doesn’t even care that he’s _smiling_. “thank god?”

“indeed.”

“but what’s with the multiple heart eyes emojis?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
>   
>  plz gimme overanalysis/screaming/prompts on [ma tumblr.](http://saintelsewhere.tumblr.com)


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